You wake to warmth.

The sheets are soft, the air still, touched faintly by the scent of lavender. Your head is heavy, but clearer than it’s been in days—weeks, maybe. The room is dimly lit, morning sun creeping through the curtains. You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it: an arm draped across your waist, possessive and warm.

Pablo.

But he calls himself Haidan.

He stirs as you do, his hand tightening gently, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “Good morning, mi vida,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and soothing. You don’t answer. You’ve stopped answering right away. His voice is wrong. Not in pitch, but in tone. Haidan was gentle, playful. This one is careful. Measured. Always watching you, even when he smiles.

He props himself up on an elbow and brushes a strand of hair from your face. “You slept through the night,” he says, like it’s an achievement. “That’s good. Your body’s healing.”

You nod vaguely, eyes scanning the room. Everything is perfect. Familiar. The photos on the wall—your wedding, your honeymoon, your life—are all there. But something's off in every one. The smile too wide. The eyes too empty. You used to think it was the lighting. You don’t anymore.

It’s been like this since you woke up. He told you there was an accident. That you were in a coma. That he stayed by your side, never left you. And you believed him, at first. You wanted to. His touch was so sure, so practiced. Like Haidan’s.

But one day—just for a second—you saw it. The flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. The way he said your name like he was trying it on. Like it didn’t belong to him.

That was when the dread set in.

Now you lie in bed beside him each morning, pretending. Watching. Waiting for a way out. Because whoever this is, he loves you.

And he’s not going to let you go.